


Thrust

by Aicosu



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, F/M, Force Bond (Star Wars), Inappropriate Use of the Force, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Post The Last Jedi, Sexual Tension, That's Not How The Force Works
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 03:42:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13068381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aicosu/pseuds/Aicosu
Summary: Kylo Ren and Rey deal with the consequences of an inconvienant force bond. (Alt; Rey catches Kylo masturbating)





	1. Chapter 1

He shouldn’t.

By the galaxy, he really… really fucking shouldn’t.

But he’s shivering now. It’s only gotten worse.

His skin is damp, hot, feverish, and he’s sweating. And without a helmet to hide behind it’s like everyone can see it. Can see his need.

Or his failure really. Are they that different anymore?

Hate boils up and distracts him just enough to carry him the rest of the way to his chambers. Officers pass him with darting looks at his exposed face and he looks right back at them, right in their eyes until they duck away. Birds taking flight in the face of a desperate, cornered, lame kath-hound.

His door closes on the preening sounds of the ship, the bleeding lights of its consoles, and the scared (doubtful) looks thrown at his back.

It’s dark in his room.

He can only hear his breath, heaving, heavy, heavier to hold as he tries to even it out.

Everything is a weight. His body, his clothes, the lightsaber on his hip. His thoughts too. Maybe those more than anything else.

So he drops it all.

His back hits the door behind him with a bang, his head thudding after that. A cacophony of noise followed by a satisfying hiss of his tunic and belt sliding down the plastisteel until he was sitting, slumped, sweating. The sounds make him shiver.

His gloves come off first, the peel and and pat of them matching the rhythm and cadence of the pants of his breath.

His fingers are clammy enough that the action is fucking painstaking and by the time they hit the floor he gives up all intention to take off anything else.

Instead he shimmies awkwardly, feeling stupid and pathetic but not enough to drive away the feel-good stinging sensation of the fabric of his pants rubbing against his thighs and therefore not enough to stop.

He has to bite down on his cheek when his skin kisses the air, hot layers of carten wool and gabardine falling away to reveal the peek of skin thats just enough for his bare hand to get at—

“Grnnnnnnuuuuughhh,”  

Fuck, his cock is dripping already and fuck, just the acknowledgment of that makes his right leg spasm out, boots squealing against the flooring. He groans, loud and unabashed and it quells his fever a bit until the folds of his clothes and the sweat in his hair is just lukewarm and cozy. _Feels good._

His grip goes languid on his dick as he curls his finger to catch the soft ridges of it.

He’d needed this. Torn up, spit up, pressured, thumbed, promoted, commanded, doubted, obeyed, rejected, worshipped—he’d needed this. This god damn release. Force. Shit. After everything, after all of it, after his success and his failure, and her—

His hips jerk, his fingers clutching as he stretches his toes in his boots and rides out a wave as he thinks of her face: her face with lips parted and eyes angry—or eyes drawn down and rain running in her hair or maybe—

His ears pull from the inside, and he has to swallow, as if to pop them, and oh no, please, not now, no,

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, stop, stop, no, no, don’t think of her, don’t, please, no—

He struggles, the weight of it all too much to pick himself up, and his legs scrabble, head banging into the back of the wall.

“We need to talk.”

Her voice is sharp and pointed and he can’t, can’t, can’t look at her no, he can’t. Not like this.

“Aa— ah,”

Her breath, it matches with his, and they gasp in shock at the same time even though he doesn’t need too, because he knows what he’s fucking doing.

“Don’t,” He warns (begs).

His eyes flicker up at her but she's turned already, face hidden in her hands and fuck— she’s there, standing bashful in his room at the foot of his bed, skin aglow with the nature of the Force.

He whines, it's not quiet, and he garbles the end of it to shut himself up. He tries to redeem himself by twisting his knees and bending his elbows, turning to press himself into the floor and hide his shame from her. “Get out.”

“I-I’m trying to.”

She turns again, her back to him and he stares at the rise and fall in her shoulders as she heaves in tandem with him, trying to keep up his pace as he fucks himself.

He shivers at the thought, wetting and pursing his lips as he watches the sensation trail down her spine and her arms wrap about herself.

“Can’t you stop? Just-just stop, I don’t want to watch you—”

“You came to me first.”

“Just stop!”

“I CAN’T!”

He yells it and his head smacks back down on the door again when he does, the pain searing into the pumping as he drives himself closer. Fuck, fuck, this is so fucking stupid. “I can’t. I need… Agnhh, I, I need this, I need it,”

“I… I don’t know how to just leave.” She tries lamely, a quarter turned back to him. He can see her lashes curl from her cheeks and wonders if she's peering at him from the corner of her eye.

The Force won’t let her go. It either picks and chooses these times they connect, or his sick thinking of her this way has kept her here like a casualty to his perversion.

But he can’t admit that. So he says nothing, turning away to let that voice of hers wash through him and into the hot yanking in his hand and inside his belly.  

“Can’t… can’t it wait…”

He closes his eyes tight, the soft wool of his cloak brushing against the silk skin of his base and he grits his teeth, because she’s here and saw him, is listening to him, and he’s sick sad and pathetic because the reality of it makes him draw up and pump faster.

“No.” He breathes and isn’t sure if she hears him.

“Can you hurry up then?”

His focus breaks a little, fingers hesitating as he can’t help but quirk his lips, fond and frustrated with her question that is so predictably her. So effortlessly her. And then he swallows because Force, they’re talking like nothing while he rides his hand to cum.

“Sure.” He answers, voice shaky and low and laced with pleasure.

He continues, unevenly paced, in silence except for his loud pants and the shuffling of his clothes on the floor, and the wet slick pressing noise of his fist sliding down and hitting his stomach.

But the silence is heavy with her presence, pressure of the Force bearing down on them both until he hears her steps, moving to stand so close to him that he has too look up at her.

Her eyes are wide and her face pink, a color that pronounces the roundness of her ears and face.

“Hurry up, please, this isn’t a good time for me either.” 

He stares at her and his rhythm slows and he watches her eyes glance to stare at his dick, openly, bare as it is in the black of his still-on clothes.

“B-busy?” He bites out, nose crinkling to toss the comment at her in anger, but pleasure spikes into the tip of his cock and a dribble of cum makes the word sound desperate and wanton.

Her chin raises and he can see sweat trail from her ear to her chest.

His hand slams into the door to hold him steady as he bucks again, heaving.

She jumps but answers, softer this time. “There's people here with me.”

His teeth bite his cheek.

“Where?”

“The falcon,”

“Mmm.” His eyes close.

Fuck. He could do it there. He knows that ship like he knows his own body. He thinks of her there, in the tiny compartments he used to curl up in. Where even with his long gangled limbs he would sleep comfortably and listen to the steady reliable hum of the old ship's hyperdrive.

“You… hear it too?” She asks

He nods, a little wildly. The noise is distant but there, reachable. It feels like a relieving stretch of muscle memory and it fills him with a sensation of fullness.

“Yes.”

She’s in the engine room anyway. Thats why. Her body rumbling, the noise loud enough to maybe hide her whispering from the rest of the crew on board, whoever they are. He’s tall enough as a man now, that he could lift her up in his arms and perch her on the hyperdrive conduit, crowd her into the fabric of the insulation and shade her whole body with his until they create a nest of warmth and heat and humming.

“Don’t,” She warns (begs).

He grits his teeth, wants to apologize, but he’s close now and fuck, does she see what he sees? Or does she want what he wants? So far and so close.

“Ben,”

His eyes fly open and he scrambles upward, because she's kneeling in front of him now, eyes wide and hair curled in sweat and his name leaking from lips. Ben! _Ben_ —

“Let me help- if I can make it go faster-”

“Hnn— nn— “ His hand releases himself, dick bobbing as his hand shakes to press against the floor because no, she's not saying that, no—

“Just let me help,” She says indignantly, reaching for him.

“No." _Yes._

But she stops, eyes burning and face burning and ears burning but looking serious and impatient. As if he isn’t masturbating in front her face.

“Fine.” He says, her face slacking to a near smugness of her win, and then to immediate embarrassment as she glances once more as his cock. Naked and lewd and dripping spots on the black mirror floor.

“What do I do?”

Force. Shit.

His hand finds himself again, eyes glancing at her before looking down at his shoes like a stupid fucking teenager.

“Just. Talk.”

“Talk?”

“Talk to me.”

She doesn’t at first. She watches him bob in his lap as he finds that reliable pace again before placing her little hands on the floor and leaning forward to watch. His brows tangles as the heightened sense of the Falcon’s hyperdrive vibrates into his skin through the floor.  

“What do I talk about?”

“ _Fuck_ , anything.”

She jumps at the curse. Which is endearing enough for him to catch her gaze again and then they're staring at each other.

“Anything.”

Her knees shift, and she settles, looking away as he continues to watch sweat slick her shoulders where his own feel wet.

“I… I think the couplers in the grate system are loose.” She starts and Ben groans. Loud. Enough to make her pause and stare at him.

“Y-yeah?”

“Yeah… but, but the ship is so old I don’t know where I’ll find any of the same model. I need to replace all the pipes down there or the ship will get too hot to take through lightspeed.”

“Mmm, mmhmm,”

“It rattles, like this, even in subspace. It feels like everything is going to fall apart. With the engine in thrust I mean. It’s loose and needs tightening.”

“Th-thrust?” He asks. Repeats. Because his brain is dead and his mind is nothing but the images of texture and visions of colors. Soft reds and creamy browns and the scrape of gauze, the pliant give of flesh.

“Y-Yeah, I-its— ah, ah, mmm, its going to break,”

“Unnnn,”

His eyes try to lift in this rushing haze to look at her, to see that her chest is breathing hard and her own eyes are drooping. That her hands are coiled in the lines of her lap and her knees are squeezed shut. He can feel her feel the engine down into his belly and his cock twitches, jerks, yanks, FUCK

“N-name—”

“Name?”

“Say my name—”

“Say—ah, Ben, Ben—”

He cums, its fast; pathetic. His body coils, a hand twisting into the depths of his hair like a punishment for this disgusting thing, this perverse thing, but Force, shit,  _Ben_ , from her lips, _Ben_ , a name from his teenage years and his childhood whispered so illicitly it drives him to pour hot white spunk. It drips down his cock and through his fingers.

Rey is noisy too, there on the floor in front of him, eyes closed and face creased terribly as she whines, before going slack and dewy eyed.

They’re quiet. Regaining breathing, shivering cold on their respective ships as filtered air hits sweat slicked skin.

His hair is coldest, and he brushes it back delicately with a clean hand while the other mops up his cum with a stray glove.

Rey is looking at his face but he ignores it.

“Sorry.” He offers. He slides the glove away and shifts on the ground to tuck himself back to a properly dressed presence.

Rey stares at the place his dick hides from being fucked, and Kylo hitches both their breathes in a cough to make her look at him again.

And then it's a cruel fate.

Because Rey is stumbling toward him, eyes hungry like only someone from Jakku can be, fingers searching for the crooks of his knees, “Ben,”

And Ben draws up in heated surprise because she’s pacing their heart beat to full speed now instead of him.

“Will you help me—”

And his ears pop, pressure shivering through him as she dissolves into the reflective tile of his room.

Gone.

“Rey?—”

His feet scramble, body on fire but ice cold as he struggles, smacking into the wall and gripping the door to get to a stand.

“Rey?”

And despite his newly felt rush of fullness he feels empty, empty and odd, staring at nothing.

Fuck.

Shit.


	2. Spin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rey deals with Ben's consequences.

  
“—me too?”

Her hands are cold. They’re on the floor.

She’s staring at the rusted plating of the engine room’s wall.

Rey exhales, shaky, her hearing clear when it was once fuzzy.

“Ben?”

She looks around as if he’s just moved. But her heart already knows, already recognizes, that this is how it works.

“Dammit!—”

Her hand smacks the floor, adding a clanging noise to the echoing cavern of the engine room. And blast it, her body is so tight she thinks she's going to snap into two separate pieces. Her back is sweating like she’s been caught in a rift in the Gaozaon badlands, but with too much water, because her tongue is soaking wet with excess.

Excess, yes. She feels like there’s too much of her and too little at the same time and it’s all Ben’s fault.

Her fist smacks down on the metal again and the pain thrums through her like she’s a vibrating tuning fork.

“Hey! We got a problem I don’t know about?”

Rey’s head snaps up.

Poe.

She swallows.

His brows go up. “Well?”

“N-No, sorry—I—these couplers in the grates—”

“Oh yeah, I was listening to that when we took off—” He starts, immediately baited and coming to kneel beside her, hands finding the slotted opening in the floor and picking at the metal there. “I didn’t think it was an issue or wouldn’t be for another couple of cycles, wait— did you hear something?”

“No, no, I just… No. We should change them, though.” She answered lamely, breathing in the cool air filtering from the bridge and allowing the coiled spring that is her stomach slowly seed away.  She thinks forcibly about the couplers and not Kylo Ren’s ragged body, messy and rumpled in his hasty fuck-session of care. Her teeth grit. “Eventually.”

“Yeah… yeah… you okay wondergirl? You’re looking a little…” Poe’s hand shakes by his head, like an unstabilized ship.

She’s dazed as she answers. The state of her body is too distracting as is the dread of standing up with her crotch wet. “Just thinking.” 

She stands anyway and Poe with her. She doesn’t particularly want to leave the engine room, but she does, the rest of the ship feeling biting and chilly. The cozy, cushy, comfort of Kylo’s (Ben’s) careless actions are chased away. For better and for good.

She preoccupies herself with their actual, flesh and blood occupants of the ship, not the Force kind.

They’re escorting Leia to and fro, picking up connections along Hutt space who then lead them to the next negotiation spot, gathering allies quietly and quickly, under seedy areas where red banners and shiny military boots seem to become more frequent by the hour.

It's enough to keep her distracted. Enough to drive off facing the fact that she talked Ben Solo into completion in a corner of his father’s ship. The hulking dark-clad FO Supreme Leader had been a melted, jerking mess, asking her to talk to him as he sweated, and spit, and moaned something loud and whiny, full of pleasure and pain in a way that made her sick with jealousy and denial. 

She couldn’t bring herself to meet Leia’s eyes each time she lowered the ramp for the General, missing the woman’s frown but saving herself the odd, perverted, sick guilt that she was still canoodling with her grown son, and helping him... _feel good._

It was maddening.

She avoided the little engine room for hours. Then days.

It hounded her. The noise of the hyperspace conduit or the sub repulsors calling longingly every night as she lay awake on her bunker, staring into nothing and listening to others sore, was insane.  
  
And her body didn’t seem happy with the situation either.

She felt like she was hopped up on spice. Her hands twitched. She needed to play with things, hold trinkets, occupy her grip even as she piloted in and out of atmospheres. Her skin burned hot, it shivered cold, and she visited the fresher often, wetting her fingertips and cleaning her cunt its heat, or replacing her undergarments with new ones and tossing the soaked ones. Not even bothering to keep and clean shame she wouldn't acknowledge. 

She was a mess.

And it was his fault.

It wasn’t until Techare IV that she swallowed her pride and frustration and slinked into the engine room after Poe, Leia, and the landing party departed to meet with their x-wing distributor.

She had volunteered to watch the ship.

Right.

“Ben?”

It was nonsense to try it so simply. The Force was as finicky and temperamental as a neglected personality droid. It rarely connected when asked and Ben’s sexual escapade during her search for conversation was proof of that. But her breath was getting shorter and shorter by the day and he owed her one, dammit.

“Ben?” She placed her hands on the hyperdrive conduit like she had the rock back on Ahch To. It felt similar too. Lukewarm and quiet. The ship aching in its age but not vibrating, engines killed as it sat on the docking strip. Nothing but the beeps of a status console answered her.

She closed her eyes and thought of the way he was when she last saw him. His voice. His hands. Thick and heavy and beating his hips with the length of his cock as his long legs teased hers, wriggling on the floor just a foot away from her.

“Ben please.”

Her thighs pressed against the tower of the drive, body leaning over it until the edge pressed into her hips and the smooth expanse of the metal met the give of her pelvis. Her wet skivvies pronounced by the heat of her cunt driving into the conduit's corner.

She rocks on it in the rhythm he’d helped himself in her memories.

“Ben, Ben… Ben, Ben, Ben—”

Her fingers clutch the round curve of the drive, her body rocking, rubbing, needing a more specific shape of friction, needing heat and compensating by creating too much for herself. Pressure builds inside her and around her. Tension picking through the air around her until--

“Stop it.”

She hushes, eyes snapping upward and seeing him.

He’s on the other side of the drive, gripping the edge of it and staring at her.

She stills, taking wonder and fright in the fact that the entire wall of the little engine room is open and wide, blinking and whirring with First Order tech. Bright white pill lights creating cold fake daylight down on Kylo Ren.

And the other First Order officers around him.

The conduit turns from rust to smooth obsidian where his hands meet it.

“B...en,” Her voice is lost and shaky. Ice filling her hot body as she stares back in confusion.

“Not right now, please.” He says. It’s a low, rattling thing, his voice.

Officers turn to look at him.

Rey lets go of the hyperdrive and runs.

She avoids the engine room for a day after that. That's as much resolve that embarrassment gives her.

But she definitely doesn’t call out after that. And she definitely doesn’t fuck herself on the conduit.

Instead, she walks in from time to time and waits, breathing carefully, eyeing the floor he had stained with cum yet not actually having any on it, then leaves.

The others begin to notice her unease but aside from Poe telling her to have a drink or “shoot something,” Nobody says anything.

After a while, Rey reminds herself that she’s not a child.

Her Jakku resilience kicks in at night, early in the hours as the ship barrels through space on the way back to their temporary hideout.

She sinks low into the pilot's chair, alone in the cockpit, knees drawn until her heels perch on the cushion. She slowly takes off her shoes, each boot thudding to the floor. Her socks follow after, bare feet reaching across to set cautiously on the console. It's warm. Buzzing.

Rey licks her lips, enjoys a sigh of relief into the empty air, the room lit up only by the whirring blue of lightspeed.

The entire ship hums beneath her.

She thinks of the conduit in the engine room as her hand slide around the expanse of her stomach. Her left rising to softly rest on her chest and the right dipping between her legs to feel the hot dampness through her pants and skivvies.

She doesn’t need Ben Solo for this.

She’s not a young girl anymore. She’s always known how to take care of herself, regardless of whether or not he started it. She’d finish it.

She shimmies her pants down, the airy gauze of her cotton wraps dipping between the gap, teasing the skin of her cunt.

A long, drawn-out sigh comes first, fingers hovering on the soft skin of her labia. Her mind hyper-focuses on the sensation, eyes closing and head lulling to the side.

The wet hits her first because of course it does, she’d been soaked since Ben had met his hands with his hips and stared at her while he’d done it.

The thought of Ben makes her just as angry as it does pained, excited. She snaps her jaw shut, bucks her hips up to delve her fingers deep into heat until she’s teasing a fake wideness with them to penetrate.

Yeah, good, felt good, that, yes.

She rubs the unseen, wet, flushed and swollen flesh with the pads of fingers until her entire body feels like it's being touched. Like its all warm, everything, the ship, and the chair, and her body, and her cunt.

“Ben.” She tells herself, thinking of his face in her mind’s eye. Of large, desperate eyes and plush lips; hitched on frowning muscles or drawing tight when he cums. Yes, good, yes, the way he looked when he came. Weak and wanting and lazy. Good, good, _good._

Pressure snaps in the air, and Rey rolls her hips to increase it, mistaking it for her pleasured nerves.

“Be—”

“—en?”

Her eyes open.

He’s there. Sitting. A hand covering those big lips and holding the weight of his head, resting on his elbow. Leaning forward in the co-pilot's chair toward her. Except it's not. It’s a black smooth obsidian thing. A star destroyer's furnishing.

He’s staring, pupils darting in tiny increments about her body. Her face. Her hips. Her hands. What her hands are doing.

“Ren, did you hear me?”

She gasps and it makes him gasp too, but his mouth is buried in his fist.

Her eyes catch the fluttering corner of black material, the sound of boots clicking. And she sees the officer standing like a carved black stone by the head of her chair. Someone's there, with him. Here now, because of it.

She looks back at Ben, watches him swallow before he looks up at the officer.

“Yes, Hux.”

Rey whines. She doesn’t mean to. But it had been endless cycles since she’d heard that voice that she’d almost started scratching in tallies on the wall like she had back on Jakku. Waiting for it.

Those dark eyes flicker right back and hold her there.

And good, good, because oh, oh, it felt good to feel warm and wet and played with while he watched her.

“There’s too much spreading of resources on the eastern front. We can’t keep sending out soldiers to lose to a bunch of smugglers. Territory is about picking the right battles, not all of them.”

The man keeps talking. Crisp voice another white noise to match the clicking and aching in the ship itself.

Her feet crane, toes lifting off the hot console to arch into a good stretch that lets her fingers dip inside her. One. Then two.

“Ah! Aa—”

“I recommend more strategic placement of scout squadrons. The east isn’t worth our time when we have the core, the capital planets, to reinstate.”

Kylo’s eyes blink hard, the hand in his lap fisting, enough to make her matching hand want to fist too. She lets it, curling a grip into her breast and squeezing feel-good pain into it.

“Aaahnn!”

It’s just loud enough that she tries to swallow the sound again, reeling her pleasure back and ending the nice stretch of her body into a slump. Her fingers catch on her entrance, slipping upward to circle her clit in a fashion that makes her tongue dart out, and her teeth bite, and her eyes cringe, and she jerks, chin targeting him again as she locks his gaze. Makes sure he’s looking.

“Ben.”

“Don’t.” He warns (begs.)

“Excuse me?”

She arcs, free arm reaching out past the headrest to flail. She feels the garbarwool of the officer’s dangling coat and recoils.

Ben’s eyes dart back and forth between the two, his back straightens, he swallows. It makes her swallow.

“Ben, please.” she urges out, turning in her chair to pin him with a frustrated look. “I h-helped you.”

“Supreme Leader.” The voice drawls, clipped, annoyed. “If this is a bad time for you—"

“It is.” he hurried, turning away from her pleading to bite an answer to the man. Rey can spot fire hair under an officer’s cap. “Hux. Go.”

The boots snap, but there’s no salute. Just a twisting to reveal the man’s pale, milky face, red-rimmed and distant.

“Another time when you’re less distracted then, Supreme Leader.”

He goes, walking straight into the cockpit walls as if they aren’t there, his black uniform swishing the air about Rey’s hair. She twists to watch him go in a haze, the coolness of his exit not deterring the leaking heat dripping from her fingers.

“You’re shaking.”

When she looks back to her he’s right there. Kneeling in front of her, co-pilot’s chair abandoned, face exposed, eyes glossy as they look up into her face with an awed expression. An immediate transformation from a recoiled shadow to a an open and exposed wound. Leaking.

“I—” she tried, heaving. Exhales and inhales as fast as she does. “I need it.”

“I know.” he nods. “I know. I… I do too.”

Rey moans, whines, tells him how much that feels good to hear by making noises.

His rips his gloves off. They drop to the floor, kissing her boots and socks and keeping them company. His hands raise again, fingertips pushing into the armrest, his huge, broad body curling around the falcon’s chair like it’s a lifeline. Even his long legs stretch out beneath her. Without the chair, she might’ve been in his lap.

“What do you want?”

“Talk to me, Ben.” Her voice is a whisper.

He whispers back. “Okay.”

His head dips, pressing his mouth into his hands before he looks up, around her, then back at her body. Her hands. Her fingers delving into the cunt he can’t see.

“I… used to sit here all the time.”

It’s not what she expected, but it’s everything. Her whole body shudders, caught on the edge of a sensation she rides out, “Yes, Ben—”

“I would come here too, late at night like you.” His gaze is on the cockpit again. “I would turn switches. Play with the gauges. I… liked the noises they made.” His breath is exhaling fast because hers is. He shifts, the weight of him shifting her whole chair, thrumming along with the ship’s engines beneath them.

“Nnnnn… “

“I could fly, a little.” He says to her face. His hands slide down the chair. She feels the cotton wrap peel away from her thigh, tickling down her skin until it hangs free.

Ben shivers, makes her shiver, says, “I’d hit the thrusters and steer. Spin.” There’s a sound that seems like a chuckle, it makes her turn to watch his face, his expression stilling so they just stare at each other. Her fingers dip down to press inside of her, widening the hole to imitate sliding something thick through her. His hand, his tongue, his cock. Anything.

“I would do this too.” He continues.

Her face flushes, sweat turning her body red.

“I would come here. Quiet. Work one out.”

“Ben—”

There’s pressure at her hip, and her toes curl on the heat of the console as she waits, waits, waits, because, because-

His finger skids across the bare skin of her pelvis, following the line of her bone to the top crest of her cunt.

“I can feel you.” She breathes, exasperated, heart pounding because it's impossible and not at all. He’s here, here, right here, touching her—

“Hn. I can… I can feel you too.”

He’s not breathing right because she isn’t. Her wrist scrapes against his finger and she moans, loud, it shudders into a cry until she has to inhale again, unable to continue writhing when she needs air. “Ben, Ben, Ben, Ben—”

“Shhhh, h-hey, s-shhhh, Rey—”

He’s standing, she watches his height encompass her, weight creaking the metals of the chair as he gets to his knees, pulls his whole body over her like he’s about to lay on top of her. Instead the heat on her skin dips low, his fingers joining her fingers.

“Oh, oh, oh--”

“I’ve got you.” He says, and he does, oh he does. His finger curls in the wet of her folds, curls right into the hole of her. Their hands both splitting her open until she clenches, keeps them there.

It's difficult this way at first. Her pants hold her legs in a desperate grip that she gets frustrated with and Ben notes it, crossing one leg over both of hers and leaving her cunt for a moment to pull her pants off.

Her skivvies come off too, light airy fabric curling up into his fist, and he pauses to stare in wonder at the fact that he's holding it. That's he's there, but not, and he has her.

Rey moan's loud and he comes back, looming again, finger deep in her cunt again and—

“Mmm.”

“Nnnnn, Bennnnnn,”

“Easy. Quiet. I got you. Rey, I got you.”

“Ben!”

He’s too thick, firm fingers in her now, and pulling through flesh and, she can’t think anymore. Her head is nothing but the smell of how close he is and the wild image of a young Ben, legs planted on the console like hers, jerking his cock like she had, or, or, or, no— h-holding her steady, in his lap, with him.

Fucking, oh they’d fuck—

“Nngh— Rey— d-don’t,”

His eyes are closed, and she knows he sees it, Sees the fake memory she’d conjured up of them fucking years ago. It solidifies in her mind, corrects itself with his own added suggestion. His hands in her hair, his teeth on her shoulder.

“Oh—"

“Ah!!”

She cums. It’s strong. Her body arches upward toward him and he hisses, fingers stilling to push against her and follow her wiggling body, their knees bumping each other and his nose touching the top of her forehead as he purses his lips and groans quietly with her.

They exhale together.

Staring at abstract pieces of each other’s faces as they slip wet fingers out and up across her belly.

The pilot’s chair is warm and wet.

“This… is going to get worse.” He whispered quietly.

Rey looks at the hard outline of his pants, the bulged, swollen unseen cock there that bobs against her knee. She nods.

“Yeah.”

She looks up. Wanting to catch the lust in his eyes.

But her ears tighten painfully, popping.

And she blinks him away.

Gone.

The Force is fickle, she thinks bitterly.

*

Ben stares at nothing, leaning over the empty black conference chair that had once been his Father's pilot chair. The silence ripping away her soft yet noisy mewling and leaving nothing but the ever-present thrum of the Star Destroyers velocity. Massive.

Alone.

Where it was warm it's now cold.

His eyes lower and he tries not to focus on the jarring difference the lack of her presence brings his mind.

His hands recoil from the seat, and then there it is.

In his palm.

The small beige fabric crumpled in his grasp, wet and warm.

Ben swallows, shoving the panties into his tunic belt and turning to leave the empty meeting room.

Shit.

Fuck.


End file.
